The Cathedral of Cliffdale (5 page)

Chapter 7

Drake rounded the corner into Abbey Place, his eyes sweeping the empty street, seeing everything.

“You’re late,” Genevieve reproached him the second he shut the door. Drake turned to see a pretty brunette bound and gagged on the sofa. He didn’t recognise her face, unsurprisingly since they did not hunt within a hundred miles of Brookfield. Her eyes were closed and her mascara had smudged beneath her eyes, no doubt from crying. A trickle of blood ran down her chest from two puncture marks in her neck. Drake’s nostrils flared as the sickly-sweet smell reached him.

“You could have waited,” he remarked, striding across the room and taking the young girl's hand. Feeling her wrist he detected a faint pulse.

“I was irritated. Sebastian called again today. The Guardians have still not found the twelfth.” Sebastian, Genevieve’s brother, was a vampire elder. He served on the council; an active participant in the vampire’s Quest for Summerfeld.

“Genevieve,” Drake warned, his fangs extending – a combination of his rising anger and his thirst.

“Summerfeld has never been so vulnerable,” she continued, her own fangs bared. “We might never have another chance like this!”

“Eleven Guardians are as good as a thousand, Genevieve,” Drake tried to keep his temper in check.

“The balance has been compromised. This is just the beginning, I am sure of it. We need to strike now!”

“Oh yes,” Drake roared, his control slipping, “and what if you come across a Slayer Genevieve?” She stiffened involuntarily at the mention of the word. “Will you still be so confident then?”

“There has not been any whisper of a Slayer in over five hundred years,” she hissed, her fangs fully extended. “And should one emerge, we will deal with it.”

“Deal with it?” Drake barked in harsh, mirthless laughter. “You have never seen a Slayer and I pray to God you never have to.”

Unbidden, Drake’s own memories washed over him. The burning village, the vampiric screaming - so blood-curdling it sounded almost human. It had been over five hundred years and he could still smell the burning flesh of his fellows as one by one they were struck down. And then there were the memories of Charlotte - as crystal clear as if it was yesterday. Charlotte. Seventeen years old, beautiful and gloriously human. He had met her through a chance encounter at a market fair and her blood had called to him. She had been surveying the wares of a gypsy stall, fascinated by the trinkets and potions. Following her when she left, he had lured her into a pebbled alleyway, his hunger for her blood assaulting his senses. He had pushed her roughly against the cold stone of an ironmongery, his fangs extending painfully in his jaws. However, when he met her gaze and the liquid cocoa of her warm brown eyes - he was lost. He couldn’t do it. Not a single bone in his entire body would allow him to hurt her. All he could see were those eyes, exquisitely set in a heart-shaped face and the full curve of her lips, which trembled in fear. The dizzying scent of the posies braided into her hair overwhelmed him and he stumbled back, releasing her abruptly and shaking his head as though in pain.

She had turned and fled, and Drake had believed for one selfish, agonising moment that he would never see her again. But then she had done something that had both startled and enthralled him. She had stopped. She had come back.

“Are you unwell, Sir?” she had asked, her pink tongue slipping out of her mouth with a slight lisp.

Charlotte’s compassion ruled her head. She was the most beautiful soul he had ever encountered and he was enchanted. She captivated him, obliterating all thoughts of the Quest from his mind. They had fallen in love in that very moment, and, in the weeks that followed, their love blossomed. Charlotte had given herself completely to Drake. He discovered her blood tasted just as sweet as he had suspected, but she offered it to him willingly during their love-making and it was all the more alluring for this. He stopped feeding off other humans, their blood losing all appeal in comparison to hers.

Drake had never been more content, more alive, than the few months after their meeting, and then tragedy had struck. Charlotte’s father had promised her hand in marriage to another. Drake had steeled all of his resolve not to hunt her betrothed down and rip his heart out, but Charlotte had quieted his fury, insisting that this was the way of the world. She would not allow him to give in to his demons and fall back into his old ways because of her.

The night before the wedding, Drake drank himself into an alcohol-induced stupor at the local tavern, so profound was his heartbreak. And then she had come, roused him from his sleep and declared that she would run away with him, leaving her old life behind. The fact that she loved him so, despite his curse, made him feel more human than he had believed possible.

They should never have been in that village. The vampires gathered there had been celebrating when he and Charlotte had arrived, seeking a place to rest for the night. She had fled her parents' home in order to be with him, vowing she would follow him to the ends of the Earth and they had been travelling for days. Charlotte had never complained – she had borne each new challenge with a strength that belied her petite, fragile frame.

Finding the small village teeming with vampires, Drake had been all for spiriting Charlotte away – as far from the creatures who would prey on her sweet innocent blood as possible – but Charlotte had wilted at the thought of going any further, desperate for rest, and so he had consented to staying for just one night. He had tried to shake off the ominous feeling that had settled over him, for Charlotte’s sake.

It was only after they had settled into their room that Drake discovered the cause for the vampires’ celebration - they had murdered a Guardian, and, even more exciting, they had secured her crystal. The revelation sent a thrill of exhilaration through him – he had long supported the Quest and this was a great victory. Never before had a vampire possessed one of the twelve stones, and the prized possession had been displayed by a particularly striking, raven-haired vampire, worn proudly around her neck before she placed it in an ornate iron box. The fallen Guardian would be replaced, but the stone was irreplaceable, and, without it, the Guardians were one step closer to their demise. Drake had itched to join in the celebration and drink to the fall of one of the twelve, but he could not bring himself to leave Charlotte and he dared not tell her about the Quest, knowing she would never approve. He had left that life behind when he met her, and he would not go back to it.

He had been watching from the small porch of their sleeping quarters, determined not to sleep and leave Charlotte vulnerable while there were so many frenzied vampires about, when the Slayer had come.

Drake had never known fear in all his years until that night. The Slayer tore through the small village like a God, killing more vampires than Drake could count. He wielded a sword as opposed to stakes, but somehow the weapon was all the more frightening for the havoc it wreaked. The few who tried to sink their fangs into the Slayer dropped dead at his feet. Drake had grabbed Charlotte and tried to flee, but more Guardians blocked his path and carrying his precious Charlotte did not allow him to fight back.

One Guardian in particular caught Drake’s eye. A broad–shouldered, bare-chested warrior with battle lust in his eyes and a palpable thirst for vengeance. His arms were covered in intricate circular tattoos, stretching from his shoulders down to his wrists.

Drake could not have known the reason for Daniel’s black rage; that the vampires had murdered his mate, Emily, and stolen her crystal. Daniel and Emily, along with Isaiah, were the only three remaining original Guardians. They had been together for almost half a century, and now she was gone.

Seeing the human girl in the vampire’s arms, Daniel had used Drake’s limited ability against him and charged, an unearthly battle cry sounding from deep in his chest. With his lightning reflexes, Drake deposited Charlotte gently on the ground beside him and then stood to face this formidable opponent. Drake was not a new vampire, and he had no doubt that, as impressive as this Guardian seemed, he would be no match for Drake’s vampiric strength. Sadly, he would never know the outcome, because in the instant before Daniel was upon him, his silver stake raised to strike, Charlotte leapt between them, and the ornamental silver stake buried itself below her collarbone, cutting through her like butter, until only the hilt protruded from her chest.

“Noooooooooo!” Drake’s bellow of anguish reverberated through the cobbled walkways. He dropped to his knees cradling Charlotte’s limp, warm body in his arms, feeling the point of the stake protruding through her back, all thoughts of the Guardian forgotten. “Charlotte, Charlotte,” he murmured, stroking her hair and pleading with her to stay with him.

Above them, Daniel paused, and Drake watched as the realisation dawned on him. He had believed the girl to be a victim of the vampire, but the palpable grief he was now witnessing made it clear that that was not the case. The young girl, her breathing laboured, had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, and a pain so severe it doubled him over, washed over him as he realised he had taken her life. A human life – an innocent soul. Daniel hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. The Guardians around him, too, made no move towards the weeping vampire. They had never seen anything like it – a vampire protecting a human was unheard of. Bending over, Daniel reached for the hilt of his stake and pulled, the gurgling sound it made as it came free of the girl’s chest making him feel faint. Despite the tragic unfolding of events, Daniel’s Hunter instinct was too strong to ignore, and he lifted the stake above his head, his eyes fixed on the back of the vampire’s neck.

Drake turned to gaze hollowly at the Guardian wielding the stake above him, his green eyes glimmering with anguished tears. He did not fear death because it would be preferable to a life without Charlotte, but as long as her heart still beat, he would not accept defeat. Daniel stared into those green eyes and an eerie sensation trickled over his body. He could not do it. He could not kill this vampire. Lowering the stake, he backed away, leaving the nightwalker to mourn the loss of his loved one.

Everything else faded away. Drake could no longer hear the torturous cries of the vampires being slaughtered by the Slayer, or the raging roar of the fires as their bodies burned. All he could hear was the faint, fading beating of Charlotte’s heart as she slowly bled to death. Casting around for help, he was faintly surprised that the Guardians had moved away, engaging in battle with the remaining vampires.

A woman skidded to a halt beside him, collapsing on her knees. Drake recognised her as a gypsy, her long dark hair slung in a heavy braid over her shoulder. The unwashed scent of her body assailed his senses, but her words, when they came, were spoken with kindness.

“Press down here,” she instructed, seemingly oblivious of the carnage raging around them. Drake did as he was told, pressing his hand down over the entry wound in Charlotte’s chest.

“Please,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “you have to help her.” The woman didn’t reply, but another voice yelled over the sound of fighting, “Jasmine!”

Drake heard the sound of footsteps approaching, but the gypsy woman was gently lifting Charlotte to assess the damage to her back.

“Jasmine!” The gypsy man reached them, grabbing the woman’s shoulders, trying to wrest her to her feet. Jasmine pushed him away, leaning in close to assess the wound. Charlotte’s breathing was rasping, a death rattle in her chest as blood filled her lungs and made it impossible for her to breathe. “Jasmine,” the man tried again, “we have to get out of here!”

Slowly Jasmine lowered Charlotte’s body back to the ground, the sadness in her brown eyes conveying all Drake needed to know.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, shaking her head. She finally scrambled to her feet and was dragged away by the gypsy man as they fled the massacre.

Drake clutched Charlotte to him, sobbing into her hair. The Guardian who had struck her was now fighting alongside the Slayer himself, seeming to have forgotten about Drake. Seizing the opportunity he scooped Charlotte up and fled, racing into the night away from the carnage. The Slayer had single-handedly destroyed almost forty vampires in the space of five minutes and Drake needed to get away from him so that he could attend to Charlotte.

He had done the unthinkable in his desperate attempt to save her: he had turned her; turned the beautiful, kind, loving girl into a vampire. She was reborn that night, her senses heightened, her enhanced strength and speed terrifyingly beautiful in comparison to her sweet youthful beauty. But with her transition came the bloodlust. Unable to resist, she fed, as often and as much as she wanted. Denying the thirst was pointless, and although he expected she would feel guilty, she never did. Charlotte’s compassion had died along with her soul.

“Drake? Drake!” Genevieve’s frantic voice pulled him back to the present, away from the memories of Charlotte, but the destructive power of the Slayer was burned into his consciousness, a stabbing pain behind his eyes.

“The Quest is important to me,” Genevieve murmured pleadingly and Drake breathed deeply, trying to remember his own fervour for the Quest before he had met Charlotte... before he had ever seen the Slayer. He did not blame Genevieve; he had experienced the same single-minded determination. Losing Charlotte had changed everything. He did not want to lose Genevieve too, although he would never feel for her the way he had felt for his first love, but Genevieve and her brother Sebastian had been seeking the City for centuries. Keeping his voice low, he chose his next words carefully, not wanting to be cruel, but needing to be very clear.